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And she did it anyway. She encouraged the bad press, knowing this might happen? What was she thinking?
“So you have a quarrel with your former husband, and me and my…” I don’t know why I stop myself from sayingmy son. “And Sebastien are caught in the crossfire?”
“I…” She sighs, the burden of the world heavy in the sound. A lump forms in my throat, but I ignore it. The only way for me to remain civil is to ignore all my reactions to this situation.
“I wanted to tell you… both… to tell you both, but… Can we talk about everything once we find him?” She is so worried about the boy it breaks my heart. Fucking instincts.
“I hate everything about this. I hate that you didn’t tell me, that you robbed me of so many years with him. I hate that I lost all that time. I hate that fucking Frederick got to experience him growing up, his first steps, his first words, his first everything.”
“Frederick never cared. He was the shittiest stepfather. They have never had a good relationship. He was an absent father. An absent husband.”
I don’t know why she feels the need to add the husband part, but I hate her for that even more.
“And I hate that through Sebastien—if he even accepts me—I’ll be forever connected to you.”
She winces, but accepts my anger without a retort, which pisses me off even more. Why doesn’t she fight? Why doesn’t she try to explain? To make her point? Why doesn’t she argue? We used to know how to do that really well. Too well.
“The watch you wore the night of the event. I bought it when Sebastien was born.”
And now I hate that watch as well. I hid the box under my bed and I don’t need her reminding me of it now. The touching gesture seems obscene in the light of current information.
For the rest of the longest trip of my life we sit in silence, the air bursting with anxiety, anger and regret. If there ever was a chance to forgive her for what happened with the private dining event, that chance has been murdered.
The dreadful death of any possibility hurts me all over again. Because before I was mad at her, but now… now I despise her so much, I don’t think I can ever look at her again. But unlike before, this time she will stay in my life. A painful reminder of what we could have been. Of all she destroyed. How will I survive her this time?
She’s the woman who stomped on my dreams. Twice. She’s the woman who strangled my heart with barbed wire.
She causes my panic attacks.
She is the bane of my existence.
She is the mother of my son.
Fuck. What am I going to say to Sebastien? Having no time to process the enormity of this new reality, new responsibility, new role in my life, how am I going to react? Should I hug him? What will we talk about?
Suddenly I have another thing to add to my Gina hate list—I wish I could ask her about him, ask her what I should do. And she took that away from me as well.
Fuck. I hope he’s okay. I hope we intercept him at the airport. He’s coming to look for me, she said. My boy. The conflicted feelings mingle with my disjointed thoughts.
The most fucked up thing is that in this prison of a car, sitting so close to her and having just discovered I have a child I didn’t know about, I’ve never felt lonelier in my life.
“Fuck!” I yell, and the driver’s eyes dart to the mirror and back to the traffic. Gina angles her shoulders closer to the window, turning her face away from me. Distancing? Or hiding?
We finally arrive at the airport. Gina consults the screen. His flight landed twenty minutes ago.
“Try to call him again,” I snarl.
Gina looks at me through her eyelashes and utters another sob. Her glasses, fogged by tears, are sliding down her nose. A few people look our way with raised eyebrows and judgment all over their faces.
What must we look like? I feel like a deranged tyrant. Inhaling, I close my eyes briefly and shove my hands into my back pockets.
Gina dials and stands there, tears rolling down her cheeks. I want to wipe them away. I want to hold her while she lives through this nightmare, but I keep my hands in my pockets.
“He’s not answering.” She lowers the phone.
I turn to watch the monitors above our heads, as if memorizing flight numbers could get him here faster, sooner, safer.
“Let’s go to the police. There is a boy missing. He was smart enough to find an airline that accepts kids of sixteen without adult company, but we don’t even know if he got on that flight.” I use all my willpower to stay grounded, literally and figuratively. I’m so close to pouncing that only the last shred of rational thinking keeps me leashed.
